


death wish

by LadySpearWife



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brother Feels, Canonical Character Death, Family, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Prophecy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:34:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23302498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySpearWife/pseuds/LadySpearWife
Summary: Nolofinwë is glad he was never told. His own memories of dying are more than enough – he has no need of Arafinwë’s prophetic opinion on his demise.
Relationships: Finarfin | Arafinwë & Fingolfin | Nolofinwë
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40
Collections: Back to Middle-earth Month 2020: Endings and Beginnings





	death wish

**Author's Note:**

> i love family relationships and nolo is a crazy bastard

I.

There’s someone shaking him, nails digging into his shoulders, a scared little breath just by his ear. Nolofinwë blinks blearily, forcing himself to sit up and rub his eyes to be at least half awake to face – Arafinwë, with his breath hitching and tears running down his face. Arafinwë who throws himself in his arms, shaking.

“Hey,” he says quietly, petting his head and resting it against his chest.

“You’re _alive_ ,” Arafinwë whines, terrified and shivering, voice failing.

“Yes, I am.” Nolofinwë lies down again and tugs his brother with him to lie by his side. “You can sleep here tonight, so you just need to shake me if anything happens.”

Arafinwë curls up by his side, still wetting his sleeve with his tears. He drags him closer and sighs. Nolofinwë has died in his dreams almost every night for the past two months or so. Always horribly. Mother should know of this, should be able to set apart childish nightmares from _prophecies_ , but Arafinwë says it’ll make her sad, so Nolofinwë just leaves his door unlocked and waits. Most nights, he only sleeps after his brother comes, shaking and miserable and crying, babbling he met a dreadful end.

He closes his eyes and tries to even his breathing, but there’s no rest for him anymore, and most certainly not for Arafinwë as well. They keep pretending.

II.

His brother stops dreaming of gory deaths a few months later. Nolofinwë can’t speak about his relief to anyone, but it’s there regardless of that, nagging in the depths of his chest – nightmares then, and he can stop wondering _now_ to every injury.

III.

_Now?_ He asks, looking at Arafinwë and not at the sword resting carelessly on his throat, not at Fëanáro’s crazed eyes, not at father’s horrified face. His brother is calm, hands clasped in perfect princely pose, nothing marring his chilled expression. _No_ , he says without words. Nolofinwë relaxes, turns his eyes to the madman’s twisted expression and blinks. He tilts his head back just slightly; a challenge on itself.

“You disgust me,” Nolofinwë whispers, too quiet to make into History.

IV.

_Now?_

The air freezes his lungs, so cold it might make bleed where it touches. Itarillë wails in his arms but doesn’t cry a single tear. It’s foolish to weep in the Ice. Nolofinwë holds her closer, hopes she can’t feel the bones through the coats and cloaks, and ignores the ache in his shoulders. Aicanáro whispers by his side – _yes, you can step here, there is safe too, don’t worry, I’m keeping watch_. Fifteen dead. He can’t keep track of them anymore.

_Now?_

The orc makes a horrible sound as Nolofinwë’s sword cuts through its chest, but Aracáno screams louder. They bury him in cold, stony Losgar with just a colorful stone to mark his grave. He doesn’t visit a single time – the War, the War, always the War.

_Now?_

Blood floods his mouth, but Nolofinwë refuses to scream. They pry the arrow from his between his ribs so carefully, so slowly – the flesh tears again, with more cruel intentionality behind this time, and he has nowhere to run from the agony. He just trashes, gagging at the stench of herbs, hoping the healers think the tears are from pain are not from the missing face as he looks towards his surviving children. Findecáno who simply walked into an orc-infested land. _Not now_ , he wants to plead to Arafinwë, Arafinwë who’s not there, _not now please, I must find my son first. Not now._

_Now?_

The smoke travels with the wind, and it brings the refugees’ wailing as well.

Nolofinwë doesn’t need his brother there to know that yes, it’s time. He just saddles Rochallor and runs a soothing hand over its mane, sword strapped to his hip and armor only half on. What a reckless, stupid, loyal horse, to not run away when it noticed his intent – what does that make of himself, he doesn’t wonder, refuses to.

V.

Nolofinwë dances with Death.

For his family, crushed and crumbling and crying. For his dead, wailing at his ears. For his realms, burning to ashes. For himself. Yes, even for Fëanáro.

Nolofinwë dances with Death and dies choking on blood, and it’s _glorious_.

VI.

_If you hunger so much for your fall, oh king, let me deliver._

His answer is too quiet to make into History – something like _you have no idea, beast_ and the merciless edge of Ringil slashing a Vala’s flesh. A statement tucked in between the pressure on his neck and the blood on his teeth and death at his ears. Or perhaps his answer is the limp of a god, the scars at the doors of Angband, the hollow victory ringing in his skull as he taunts his fate. Head tilted back; a challenge on itself.

VII.

Nolofinwë is glad he was never told. His own memories of dying are more than enough – he has no need of Arafinwë’s prophetic opinion on his demise.

VIII.

“You did it.” His brother’s voice is very quiet, dripping with an accusation that’s only thinly veiled. “I can’t believe you rode to face Moringotto alone like you’re stupid or crazy. This is something I’d expect from Fëanáro, for that’s holy –”

“Fëanáro did _try_ ,” Nolofinwë shrugs, hands raised in mock surrender.

It lasts only a moment more. Arafinwë tugs him forward, his hands shaking, and hugs him, tight enough that Nolofinwë feels injuries this new body of his doesn’t have, not anymore. He hugs back twice as fiercely – there’s so much scratching his throat, begging to be spoken, but nothing meaningful comes out. No _thank you_ for never saying what would happen with him, no _it felt like I should do that_ , nothing. Nolofinwë just clings to his brother, pretending he doesn’t bring with him ancient aches and memories.

“You madman,” Arafinwë whispers, half pained and half awed, but completely exasperated. “You’re _praised_ for your glorified suicide! I can’t believe you.”

“Who else would do it?”

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked this!!! and it's a really late welcome to the back to middle earth month so!! hi!!  
> it's been ages since i wrote tolkien the hell help me


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